


Journeys

by TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fanart, Gen, Old Wounds, Poetry, Scars, Surviving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen/pseuds/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen
Summary: Scars tell of a journey.Poetry.Edit: 27 May 2020I added some art 😊
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon





	Journeys

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver) in the [SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before,  
> scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt. ~Richard Siken, poet
> 
> A/N - I probably shouldn’t attempt to respond to a prompt by a poet with more poetry, but what can I say 🤷🏻♂️ I did start off writing the idea out in prose and my muse insisted on using words that rhymed and in the end I just gave in. 😊

—o0o—

From the valley of his left hip, over abs that roll and dip, it traverses the great mountains of his chest and finally comes to rest, high upon the broad sweep of his right shoulder at its peak.

It’s twin lines are thin but raised, their feeling rough, a little abraised - the healed results of middle claws, a slash that rent and tore, as it sought to free the roaring river of his blood, in a lethal crimson flood. 

That malignant mission failed, cut short in its own demise, yet the violent history of the act remains, indelibly incised, upon his mortal form. A permanent chronicle of near catastrophe, a fact of his life’s insanity, but merely a footnote to another pain, another day, another norm.

So why does his flesh shiver like one kissed by lightning, short hairs standing to attention ready for fighting, as his own two fingers trace the path of devastation. Their press a feather light exploration, just a questioning flirtation, from a poet's hands born to wield a pen, but instead forged by fate into a killer of beasts and men, and yet though shaped to the hilt of a sword, his touch remains gently assured. It’s not his touch that gives him pause.

From their origin to final destination the scar lines lay on him like steel hammered into the earth’s foundation. Like the tracks of trains onwards charging; trampling, overlaying, jarring. A road that binds it’s bearer to the course. No chance for deviation. No changing deliberation. No choice for delineation. Just domination.

They are inescapable. Maybe inevitable. But certainly not original. They cross a landscape that is marred like the surface of the moon. A face so fair turned towards the light to flee the fury of the night but instead locked in gravity, unable ever to be free, and forced to bear the impact of a million calamities.

His hands resume their journey, locked upon their preset path, soft fingers counting scars they pass, they count the lines of wrath. A catalog of pain that would surely shiver the surest soul, and pale the bravest heroes either young or old. 

And these are just the marks he sees, the surface of an iceberg deep. There’s yet more pain below the skin, where lines of magma twist within, which can’t be found by hand or eye, and burn within each quiet sigh.

Yet healed he is. 

Not whole. Not scarless. The marks not gone and not forgotten. But he’s not a corpse, not cold, not rotten. To heal and knit a body must live. To form a scar the heart must beat and give. It must move forward, must go on, continue the journey, travel along.

His fingers halt their progress on the peak of his right shoulder and a new thought makes his heart so suddenly grow bolder. For a stop upon a mighty mount affords a startling view. A look upon the landscape from a perspective entirely new.

The line of scar comes to an end, the white marks disappear. The raised lines, where once so thick and harsh, return to pink and clear. His hands are free to travel now, whichever way they choose, they are not bound to track marks or locked into the grooves.

And so he stands. 

A product of his history yes but strong enough to win. The evidence of his victory is written on his skin. A journey told in each pale scar, that litters near and far. A map to his survival. His achievement here unrivalled.

So he stands a moment longer, to appreciate the view, then he turns and steps on forward, for tomorrow’s day is new.

—o0o—

  
Sam Winchester - Not Broken

the making-of video:


End file.
